


Breakfast at Harrington's

by beswathe



Category: Bully (Video Games)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Post-Game, That's All There Is Folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 14:58:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17388518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beswathe/pseuds/beswathe
Summary: In which Gord doesn't care for mornings, and Jimmy is too preoccupied to sympathise.





	Breakfast at Harrington's

If one overlooks the fact his family’s vacation home is merely a timeshare, Gord Vendome’s darkest secret is this: he is not an early bird. Unlike the Parkers of the world, he cannot greet each day with perfect hair, and always balks whenever Chad invites him on a ‘refreshing’ six o’clock jog. It takes Gord a good thirty minutes of fruitless bargaining (God must be a _communist_ ) to get out of bed once his alarm goes off, and another thirty minutes after that to take breakfast alone in some secluded corner of Harrington House.

Sharing his plight with his peers would mean taking ownership of—god forbid—a _character flaw_ , so the only living soul to know about Gord’s predicament is that dear girl Maria, the most discreet maid employed by the dorm. Of course, he suspects she’s only so wonderful about keeping his secret because she scarcely speaks English.

Each new cross on the calendar is met with the same overture. He staggers out of bed when he’s able to, and wraps up in a bathrobe so tightly it nearly threatens his circulation. On clear days, he drags himself up the twenty or so steps to the balcony, finding the glass table there adorned with croissants and coffee courtesy of Maria. He takes as much time as he needs to feel human again, and none of the rowdy chaps below even know he’s there to bother him.

He’s never been one for appreciating nature, but as the patio overlooks a forest, some aspects have come to impress him over time. Watching sparrows hop from branch to branch is oddly soothing, and he enjoys the soundtrack of their singing, even if he’s aware on a strictly logical level that he’s really just hearing obscene mating-calls.

Today, whatever fauna dwells in the trees must be feeling _particularly_ randy, because the trunk of one is vaguely swaying, leaves rustling ever-louder as though their busy occupants are drawing closer. Gord, half-awake and therefore only half-interested, sips coffee as he watches with idle curiosity, expecting to see a rare squirrel emerge, perhaps, or…

Or not. Squirrels aren’t a funny shade of pink, nor do they dress in full Bullworth uniform. The animal scurrying up the tree with some fervor is decidedly not a squirrel, but Gord at least knows the taxonomy it belongs to: James Hopkins, _suavis brutum_.

Not today, Gord thinks. Or at least, not right now.

“Hopkins,” he says, walking the line between sounding unimpressed and non-threateningly sleepy. “I must say, this is bad form even for you. Could you kindly wait ‘til we’re in class before you trash the place?”

Hopkins grunts, probably just because of the effort involved in dragging himself onto the branch. He maneuvers to sit on it successfully, albeit precariously—and once he’s in position to stare straight across the patio at Gord from his perch, he does so.

“What?”

Gord sighs, setting his coffee down. “I said, if you’re sneaking in to trash the place…”

“What? No. Why’d you say that?”

“Because you have form for it.” A grimace feels appropriate. “Derby hasn’t forgiven you for executing his prize plant, you know. Nor have I forgiven you for the left hook you threw my way in the process.”

“Huh.”

It’s apparently all Hopkins has to say for himself, expression neutral while he scratches the back of his head. He’s breathless, a little red in the face—likely from climbing—and if he’s not planning criminal mischief, why he bothered remains a mystery.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t summon the chaps to handle you,” Gord says, though the threat is an empty one. If his options are letting his friends in on his breakfast routine, or receiving another thrashing, the latter wins by a landslide.

“Go right ahead. You’ll miss out.”

“On what? I think we can do without your uniquely caustic wit.”

“Idiot. I’m here to _see_ _you_.”

“Oh,” Gord says. It is resplendent camouflage for the shiver that runs up his spine.

He _so_ likes it when the common folk seek him out; he toys with them, then they’re hooked. Whether it’s for his stylish finesse or natural good looks, they simply can’t keep away… yet of his paramours, Hopkins is certainly the least conventional. That makes him, begrudgingly, the most _interesting_.

For Hopkins has only ever had Gord on his back in furtherance of some silly turf war. By comparison, though there are many things Gord could say about Lola, he could never claim she has a propensity for knock-out brawls. Half the time, this undefined _thing_ he has with Hopkins feels forbidden not because Daddy wouldn’t approve (though of course, Daddy most certainly would not)—but because they are two opposing forces on the Western Front, crossing trenches to compliment each others’ boots. Romeo and Juliet might be an equally apt description; Jimmy _did_ just scale a tree for him.

It isn’t quite the dynamic Gord is used to. While he is accustomed to being pursued, it’s not as a prize of war.

Yet he doesn’t entirely think he minds.

“Give me one of those,” Jimmy says, with no indication of shame as he nods towards Gord’s breakfast.

The basket of croissants is, Gord can admit, slightly indulgent; he hardly needs so many. They’re just as soft as they look, and warm, too, so he supposes he could afford to treat Hopkins to more decent food than whatever gruel they serve in the regular dorms.

But bringing one to Hopkins would require vacating his comfortable chair and moving again. Still protesting the cruelty of having to be awake, Gord shakes his head.

“I’m not your manservant, Hopkins. You come _here_ if you want one.”

“All right,” Jimmy says, shrugging. As he extends his arms in front of him, bridging the gap between branch and building, Gord immediately regrets being so obtuse.

Three floors is no petty height to fall from. Gord realises he must’ve stopped breathing the moment Hopkins began clambering onto Harrington House, because he lets out a sigh of relief once Hopkins manages it. He watches as Hopkins rolls unceremoniously over the wall, and then, for a moment, sprawls out across the patio.

Gord takes the time to scold himself, having drawn dangerously close to _caring_ about Jimmy’s well-being. _It’s not like Hopkins is all that considerate when he’s pummeling you, Vendome._ A farcical waste of worry.

Still he says, allowing himself the comment because it’s too late to mean much: “Are you all right?”

Hopkins responds by getting to his feet. He brushes his sleeves down for good measure, then crosses the floor, his face the picture of bewilderment.

“Why’s it so hot up here?”

“Underfloor heating,” Gord says, frowning, having hardly expected to be asked about a basic human right. “Your dormitory doesn’t have it?”

“We barely have floors. I did wonder why you’re having breakfast outside in winter.”

There is a vacant chair directly opposite Gord’s, but Jimmy doesn’t take it, not right away. Instead, he drags it around the table (Gord winces at the screech of the metal legs against brick), opting to set it down almost uncomfortably close to Gord himself. When Jimmy finally sits down, they’re close enough that Jimmy’s knee accidentally bumps against Gord’s.

Another delightful shock up the spine. Gord does a passable job of containing a tremble.

He can’t blame the weather now that they’ve established this place is just as toasty as his croissants, so just in case Jimmy noticed, he’s quick to speak his mind. And he does have things that need answering, after all.

“Did Maria tell you where to look?” he says, primly, reaching for the basket.

“Who?”

“Much as it suits you, you shouldn’t play dumb,” Gord says with a sniff. He loads his knife with a generous helping of butter. “Only the maid knows I sometimes eat here.”

“You think I wanna hang out with your staff and give you more ammunition? I just got lucky.” Jimmy pauses long enough to accept the plate Gord pushes across to him, once there’s a buttered baked good atop it. “My plan was to check every room if I had to.”

Gord’s brows shoot up. “For me?”

“Yeah, dumbass, who else? Apart from the dog, you’re the only person here I don’t hate.”

That makes Gord laugh—something he’d previously thought impossible before noon. Jimmy really is thoughtlessly close, but with only portions of his brain alert, he’s in no mood to argue. Besides, he’s always been enamored with the little things, and Jimmy knows just how to flatter him.

“Go on, then. I’m sure you’re dying to ask.”

With a mouth full of pastry, Jimmy gracelessly says, “Ask what?”

“You must want a favour, so let’s not beat around the bush. Regale me with your latest dastardly scheme.”

“Don’t want nothin’,” Jimmy says. He swallows, only to go right back in for another bite. “Jus’ wanted to hang.”

With a smirk, Gord reaches for the coffeepot to replenish his cup. “Can’t get enough, eh? I do have that effect on people.”

“Sure. That’s why you’re up here all alone.”

Gord pauses, but not for long. He resumes refilling his drink sans smirk.

“As ever, in your haste to shoot something, you miss the mark completely. I’m alone _by_ _design_.”

“Right.”

Hopkins stuffs the last of his poor croissant into his mouth—practically _wolfs_ it down, can he not afford food?—and sprawls across his chair, in a grotesque display befitting someone apparently obsessed with barns. He lifts one leg to plant a foot on the seat, then tips back his head, watching Gord start on his coffee from an angle.

“Enlighten me, Richie Rich. What’s this design of yours called?”

“Firstly, Jimmy, if I am _anyone_ from that series, I am Richie’s exceedingly more efficient cousin Reggie van Dough—”

“ _Gord_ —”

“—and if you must know,” Gord says quickly, to cut off whatever growling admonishment Jimmy has in mind. “I’m…”

He’s quiet for a moment, caught between concocting a lie or telling the truth. He and Hopkins aren’t in the business of sharing _secrets_ with each other, never delusional enough to pretend what they have is anything like intimacy, but Hopkins is Hopkins. In no position to judge anyone, especially not the singular Vendome heir.

And it would possibly be nice to tell someone.

“I dislike mornings,” he says, with some effort. “I struggle with them. They’re a hassle, as is dealing with people so early.”

If Jimmy had been Derby, or Bif, he'd have rolled his eyes or scoffed, perhaps, comparing Gord to a child devoid of self-control if he has to rely on such a silly routine. They’d joke about his need for heated floors and birdsong and coddling by the maid.

As it happens, Jimmy is nothing like them (not that there was ever any doubt). He doesn’t react much at all, save for another non-committal shrug.

“Fair enough. I'm not their biggest fan either.”

Gord frowns, determining not to share his confusion. What seems so important around Harrington House barely ever registers as a problem on Jimmy’s radar, from the latest fashion crazes to the need for composure at all times, to show no weakness even amongst friends.

Is this what _all_ paupers are like? How quaint. Life must be so wonderfully simple.

“Can I?” Jimmy says, pointing to the pastry basket again.

Gord nods silently, already moving to butter a second croissant, but Jimmy cuts him to the chase and seizes one. Which he proceeds to bite into _dry_ , as though it were an apple.

Unable to hide his disgust, Gord crinkles his nose.

“Hey,” Jimmy says, mid-chew, “don’t look at me like that. They’re good.”

“I know they are. I’m glad you’re enjoying my breakfast.”

“Too much butter,” Jimmy begins. He gulps down his mouthful prior to finishing the thought. “Too much butter is bad for you, anyway.”

“I—!” Taken aback, Gord laughs, a little crueler this time. “Are you calling me fat? You’re a stocky thing yourself, Hopkins.”

“Nah.” Jimmy smiles, outwardly rather pleased with himself. “You’re perfect.”

Thus returns the flattery, though Gord would never tell it to leave. He preens under it, looking equally smug, tracing the back of a hand slowly along the base of his jaw. Showing off.

“Tell me something I don’t know, Jimmy.”

Jimmy doesn’t tell him anything. Rather, he pushes up from his chair swiftly enough to take Gord by surprise, planting his palms on Gord’s cheeks. Gord barely has time to assess the situation—maybe he still isn’t fully awake—before he’s conscious of Jimmy’s mouth on his, warm like breakfast. Similar in taste, unsurprisingly. As far as kisses go, it’s chaste, but Gord instinctively parts his lips, just enough to seem receptive.

All too soon, Jimmy pulls away. Standing now, leaning against the table and looming over Gord, though it's not unwelcome.

“How’d you like your morning now?”

“Mm…” Gord makes a show of looking thoughtful, tracing his mouth with a fingertip. “It’s moderately better.”

“Skip school with me.”

Gord merely blinks. While he wouldn’t say he’s excited about the classes on his schedule today, he doesn’t tend to play hooky unless he _unquestionably_ has something more important to do—such as shopping for a new sweater. Poor grades would be a terrible precursor to the LSAT; suffering through gym is a small price to pay for the prestige of defending murderers inspired by talk radio.

“C’mon,” Jimmy says, with slightly more insistence. When Gord’s gaze drifts, he gently lifts Gord’s head with a curled finger beneath his chin. “We can do whatever you want. Have you seen the carnival yet?”

“No, but it does sound deliciously boorish.”

“Then c’mon. We’ll go check it out.”

Jimmy’s hand hasn’t moved, and Gord blames the early hour for the way he keens his head to one side, still staring up at Jimmy with an expression both bemused and hesitant. With the same unthinking passivity, Jimmy’s hand slides up to cup Gord’s cheek; Gord allows his head to rest there.

Jimmy is warm. And fortunately devoid of butter. Gord’s eyelids flutter, then slide shut.

“Why today?” he murmurs, after a moment. “Why the urgency?”

“No reason,” Jimmy says. It’s a great disappointment when he withdraws his touch, but it allows Gord to remember himself long enough to _briskly_ straighten up. “It’s just…”

His eyes flicker away, which is all Gord needs to know. There’s _something_ bothering his favourite barbarian, and it’s simply not right of him to withhold it.

“I told you _my_ secret,” Gord says. He folds his arms—not out of defiance, but to huddle further into his robe. “You have no choice but to tell me yours.”

Jimmy flashes the sort of grin one gives in spite of themselves. “We work on the barter system now?”

“I prefer to call it capitalism, babycakes, and information is my currency.”

Though Jimmy falls frustratingly silent, Gord allows it; the ridiculous boy is nowhere near as unreadable as he thinks. Every consideration inside his head flashes across his face, from _ugh-hell-no_ to when he lands on _maybe-it’s-okay_.

So Hopkins sits down again. He rests an elbow on the table and props his head against his fist, looking about as glum as Gord feels whenever Aquaberry closes for refurbishment. Another agonising moment of brooding later, he surrenders to Gord’s expertly convincing look of concern, one calculated to disguise the fact he’s a bloodhound for gossip.

“I got a letter.”

“Oh?” Gord says. He leans in, unable to contain it; he steadies himself by gently gripping Jimmy’s knee.

“Yeah.” It’s almost remarkable, how quickly Jimmy’s tone takes on a biting edge of vitriol. “From my mom’s husband.”

Now this _is_ juicy. Courtesy of the loathsome cockroach that had called itself Gary Smith, there isn’t a soul on campus who doesn’t know about Jimmy’s complicated home life. He’s never discussed it with Gord, though, and some details were likely exaggerated when Smith shared them during a psychotic power-trip. Not only is this therefore juicy, it’s hot off the press.

“Quite the development,” Gord says, a touch more eager than would elsewhere be polite. “What did it say?”

“I don’t know. I don’t _want_ to know. I got Petey to skim a little of it, and from what he told me it sounds like some kind of back-handed apology.” Jimmy sneers. “Something about knowing all along that Bullworth would be good for me. _Yeah_. Like _that’s_ why I’m here.”

Thrilling as this all is, Gord finds himself unable to think of further questions. Well. That isn’t strictly true. He can think of _plenty_ , but he can’t bring himself to ask them when Jimmy looks so miserable—which is bizarre, because Jimmy’s fragile emotional state has never interfered with his fun before.

If this was anyone else—one of the preppie crowd, anyway—Gord would probably try saying something sympathetic. In theory. Said crowd rarely discusses their problems, shows _weakness_ , lest they end up resembling their resident sad sack, Tad. Only he seems to get away with being openly pitiful, their own personal cautionary tale.

Yet Gord has no advice to give anyway. Compared to his friends, there isn't a dark cloud hanging over his home; his parents are happy together, a walking testament to the effectiveness of arranged marriages, and there are no skeletons buried beneath his ancestral tree. Aside from a pesky predisposition to substance abuse.

“Where’s your father in all this?” Gord asks—more from curiosity and less because he thinks it will help. He doesn’t believe he’s ever heard the original Mr. Hopkins receive mention, not by anyone. “Does he know where you are?”

“We’re not on good terms,” Jimmy says, shoulders rising a fraction. “He still hates my mom for leaving. Maybe me, too. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive him for holding grudges.”

As now doesn’t seem like a good time to point out the hypocrisy of such a statement, Gord politely nods along.

He’s annoyed with himself for it.

He’d _usually_ nod along to a conversation like this, granted, waiting desperately for it to end because he simply doesn’t care that much about other people and their boring problems. Not so for Jimmy, it seems. He wishes, vaguely, that he _could_ do something—which is a dangerous wish to have. It’s the sort of feeling that…

That he’d spare on someone he kisses good morning and butters croissants for.

“You don’t have to read it,” Gord says. Stating the obvious feels better than nothing. “The letter, I mean. The maxim of too little too late comes to mind, and you’d be perfectly within your rights to throw the bloody thing in the ocean.”

Stunningly, Jimmy perks up, sitting properly in his seat with a grin of amusement.

“That’s actually a good idea.”

“Oh, yes. I’m full of them.”

“Maybe it’ll drift back to his stupid boat.”

“Wouldn’t that be satisfying?”

“Yeah.” Once again, Jimmy is watching him intently. “So come with me.”

“You wish to go boating?” Gord perks up. “I have a _lovely_ little skiff that…”

“No, you beautiful moron, but it figures you’d have one. Let’s go to the _beach_.” Jimmy pats the pocket of his trousers, and Gord sees a folded piece of paper—or envelope, most likely—peeking out the top of it that he hadn’t noticed before. “We’ll get rid of it, then go do something actually worth the trouble.”

“ _Ugh_ ,” Gord says with theatrical flair, grimacing accordingly.

The notion of traveling into town isn’t disagreeable; it’s the idea of doing so before it’s even gone eight, and more than that, standing by the _coast_ in this weather. City hall has yet to introduce under-sand heating.

But Jimmy looks expectant, and today, for whatever reason (a reason Gord doesn’t care to examine, allergic to anything _resembling_ introspection, even without asking why Jimmy came to _him_ of all people)—just _today_ , Gord is loath to disappoint.

“Very well,” he says as a mutter, reaching for the coffee he’s going to need. “But we are completing breakfast first, in a leisurely fashion. And once we’re out together, you must positively spoil me, Hopkins, in recognition of the dreadful inconvenience you’ve brought to my door.”

Jimmy’s agreement comes in the form of an additional kiss, clumsy and wet against Gord’s cheek. Gord closes one eye and accepts it, albeit with a huff.

He watches Jimmy resume eating the croissant he’d had before, subjecting himself to another round of butterless dough. It is still a disgusting performance, but Gord finds himself… entertained, almost. Endeared. Another thing he’ll have to unpack later.

It’s too early to worry about all that now.


End file.
